A Way With Words
by wallyflower
Summary: When Pansy Parkinson pushes Hermione Granger into the Hogwarts lake, the most unexpected things begin to happen. A sixth year Harry/Hermione/Draco story.
1. Reverie

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The very first line was taken from Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen, and modified a bit. 

**Summary:** A sixth year H/Hr/D fic which will feature Diary entries, the giant squid, Confused!Hermione, WetShirt!Draco, Sleepless!Harry and the Oh-so-clichéd dream. ****

**Author's Note: **I forgot in what house Sally-Anne Perks belongs, and I can't refer to my books because they're at my cousins. Please feel free to correct me. I also apologize if the plot will be moving a tad slowly in the first chapters… I've no idea what will happen, really, I just go along as I type. All I know is that the pairing will be either D/Hr or H/Hr, and I'm running a poll on which pairing the fic will end up as. Tell me what you want in a review! Also, Flames aren't unwelcome, but not very warmly received either.

**Note Added October 28, 2001: **There is a debate as to whether 35° is too hot or two cold. Just to let you know, I'm talking Celsius here, and as we had _that_ temperature just yesterday, I do think it's pretty warm.

Indulge! 

* * *

**A Way With Words**

Chapter 1: Reverie

It is said that the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker. 

Which means, the girl thought sullenly, that the most interesting topic might also be rendered common, dull and threadbare by the skill, or lack thereof, of another. 

Hermione Granger yawned discreetly. A classmate and (being unusually neutral regarding the House prejudice) a Slytherin, Sally-Anne Perks, raised one of her finely plucked eyebrows at Hermione and smirked good-naturedly. Hermione grinned in acknowledgement at her and made an effort to pay attention to a lecture that she could only describe as 'bloody boring', despite her usual interest in the subject. 

They were sitting in the sixth-year Gryffindor-Slytherin Arithmancy class, which wasn't nearly half as bad as Potions, even with the Snakes in the classroom. However, Professor Vector, the Arithmancy witch, had been taken ill and an exceptionally boring substitute teacher took her place in the front of the class, making Hermione ask herself whether Potions would be more bearable—and _that_ was saying something.

_Not even Professor Binns is this dreary._

As Professor McFarland read out loud from _Advanced Arithmancy, Year 6_, Hermione doodled on a page in her fabric-covered journal. Usually she would be listening with rapt attention to their teacher and jotting down notes, but considering the sweltering heat (unusual as it was in this time of year) and the lacklustre lecture, Hermione reasoned that perhaps she could just read Chapters 5-8 (the sections Professor McFarland was reading from) in the common room later on. Not, of course, that she hadn't read those already. 

Her quill scratched across the bound parchment pages. Hermione wasn't really paying attention to what she was drawing – the heat was making her very drowsy. A pleasant wind from one of the (thankfully) open windows caused her to blink, and she realized with a sort of start what her distracted hand had written across the paper in her tiny cursive:__

_Harry Potter__. _

Hurriedly Hermione scratched the name out. 

_Harry Potter__._

With the corner of her eye she searched the room for anyone who could be looking at her. Thankfully, everyone either had his sleepy head on his desk (like Blaise Zabini, who was snoozing soundly and drooling on the table) or was passing notes with a classmate when the professor's back was turned (to be expected of Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, her roommates, of course). When she decided that no one was looking in her direction and that everyone was much preoccupied with their own activities (_Unbelievable!_, she thought with disgust and yet a definite hint of admiration, _Someone is actually exchanging saliva in the middle of class!_) to notice what she was doing, she let her eyes take on a glazed expression and began to mull over some things, oblivious to the classroom and leaving the rest of Earth behind her to enter another world. 

Immediately _his_ face swam into her mind's eye, as it did every time she closed her real ones. Green eyes, black hair, glasses… Perhaps those weren't the makings of a total 'dreamboat', as Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown had called some Ravenclaw boy, but he was easy on the eyes, in no small part because he didn't think himself to be so. He was never vain, self-conscious sometimes, but never vain. He was a friend, a very good one, but sometimes she ventured to wonder if he was more… she took into careful consideration the look on his face when she had shown up at the portrait hole door carrying a stack of toast just as he was about to come down to a breakfast in which all of the Great Hall's occupants' eyes would doubtless be on him… or when she had shown up at the ball last year (his mouth had briefly formed an 'O' of surprise before his date, Padma Patil—who was just one more of the countless girls on the list of witches Harry had dated since fourth year—lifted his jaw with a sharp-nailed finger, purposefully scratching his chin in annoyance)… or every time she had kissed him on the cheek before going home each year to Hertfordshire, her Muggle home… Smiling and inattentive, she placed her finger to her lips in memory of the feel of forbidden skin she knew she would never get to touch in any more intimate ways.

A drawling voice that she supposed would never cease to bring a frown of annoyance to her face broke into her reverie and wrenched her sharply back to attention. 'Daydreaming about Potter again, Granger?' 

Hermione started, jumped, gasped, blushed, and was still. Fortunately Professor McFarland was busy writing down an array of messy little symbols on the board to notice her antics. She, surprised at his sudden statement but now uncertain that her… _infatuation_ was as clandestine as she had thought it to be, tried to regain a tad of her dignity and glared at Draco Malfoy. 

'Says who, you little ferret? Now shut _up_. I'm trying to listen to the Professor.' A lie, but why should she have to explain her actions to _him_?

Malfoy, situated behind Sally-Anne (who was now snoring peacefully), whose seat in turn was to her right, was sitting with his arms folded across his chest as if all the world could burn in bloody hell and he wouldn't care, leaning forward to sneak a peek at her notebook. His lips curled in the malicious, trademark Malfoy smirk as he glimpsed what she had absently scribbled. Hermione reddened and quickly shut the journal and put it in her leather satchel. 

He acted as though he hadn't heard her ferret comment. Hermione mused that he still must be trying to put it behind him—_tough luck, you git! Harry and Ron will never let you!_

 'So it _is _Potter, is it?' he snickered, oblivious to her thoughts and the fact that _she_ was snickering at _him_ inside her head, and his voice full of mock surprise and undisguised wickedness. He leaned back in his seat, arms still folded, one silver eyebrow raised (How_ can he _do_ that? I only can raise two at a time!_). As Hermione glared daggers at him, she noticed that, despite the baking heat, he wasn't sweating at all, while she was aware that the back of her shirt, underneath her robes, was already slightly damp. The cynic in her, that bit of Slytherin everyone possessed and hid (except, she thought, for the Slytherins themselves, who showcased it in a shamelessly proud fashion) thought, _He's probably not even human—what normal person won't sweat in this heat?_

Gryffindor-Hermione was more than shocked at her own tastelessness, and chose to ignore what he said and turn her attention to the ever dull and dreary professor. 

She stared determinedly at the Professor's hat, which was set at an uncertain angle on the wizard's auburn hair and looked about to fall any moment (although, to her amazement, it never did, despite its precarious wobbling). All the while she could still feel Ferret Boy's gaze on her back. 

The bell signalling the end of class and the start of morning break rang mercifully 10 minutes later, and Hermione felt it couldn't have been more welcome; knowing that her greatest academic rival (he topped Potions and was on the top five of his every class) was aware of her every movement had restricted her and made her uncomfortable—she hated him for knowing exactly how to disconcert her. She gathered her quill, inkbottle and her messily written 'notes' (she had taken to making an outline of chapter 6 in the tension) and hurriedly stashed each in her school bag and fled from her class. 

Draco Malfoy was left alone, still staring at the place where her swish of brown hair had last been seen. 

***

_Draco Malfoy's Journal_

_Journal, _

_In Arithmancy with the Gryffindors (and an excruciatingly _boring_ substitute teacher – Professor was taken ill), I saw Ms Perfect herself daydreaming. Imagine—ever-alert Hermione Granger, who had once surreptitiously kicked me in the shins when I yawned in the same class and was sitting beside her, falling into some reverie in the middle of Arithmancy! It was obvious she wasn't paying attention because she had this goofy little smile plastered on her face. I peered over her shoulder and saw, to my utter disgust, a name spelled out in her typical handwriting: Harry BLOODY Potter. (Well, she didn't exactly write the 'bloody' bit, but that's beside the point.) I felt like throwing up—I understood what everyone saw in Potter, but it is just bloody _sickening_ when someone as smart as Granger falls for that spectacled mouse—and did what every Malfoy would do: milk it for all it was worth and taunt her. (Father, are you proud?) She acted all 'I was not and you had best shut up and pay attention'. Too bad the substitute didn't notice. _

_It's strange, though; I never thought her the sort to think about boys, if you can call that little runt a boy. But at least it's a semblance of normalcy; sometimes I think she's not human, what with her perfect grades and perfect face and perfect hair and… Wait, what the hell?_

_I must go, Crabbe and Goyle are back from the hospital wing and are asking me if I saved them anything from lunch, which they missed. Honestly, being bloody sixth years, you'd think Goyle would know now how dangerous Bundimun ooze is. _

_D.M. _

***

Harry and Ron met up with Hermione in the Gryffindor common room a few minutes after Divination. Harry was muttering incoherently to himself and Ron was grunting insults at Professor Trelawney, who had spotted them making up last-minute predictions outside her classroom some weeks ago, thus knowing that they did not deserve the top grades they got in her class (_Lavender and Parvati must've had a field day_). Hermione could make out a few words of the inarticulate grumbling, like 'Old hag' and 'predictions my ass'. She sighed and prepared herself for giving another lecture about how they should take Arithmancy and give up Divination. 

'So,' said she as casually as she could, taking off her reading glasses and setting it and her book down. 'What's up?' 

The boys looked at her for a few seconds and went on with their mumbling ('the fates have informed her… Yeah, right..' 'Dumbledore knows she's a ---- and he had best fire the -------, ------- bat for everybody's good..') 

This went on for a few minutes. Hermione sighed, blocking from her hearing various phrases she knew were full of four-letter words she'd be better of not hearing. It was, she mused, like something husbands—including her father and Mr Weasley—learned after years of living with their spouses (in this case, it was her friends). You had to be able to listen to them; ready to answer when asked to repeat the last line said spouse/friend said in full, while pursuing another train of thought. 

In this case it was along the lines of how she even got along with these two. 

Oh, it wasn't as though they annoyed her (except when Ron intended to, of course—Harry never did anymore, now being more reserved and quiet—understandable, if one knew how he had to wake up every morning with the knowledge of a feared, cunning, murdering Dark wizard very much revived and on his trail), and it wasn't as though she didn't love them. She adored and loved and needed both of them, and they were the reason she woke up every day… but that didn't really keep her from wishing that they were somehow more alike. 

But that was it, wasn't it? The three of them were so different from each other that each complemented the others' personalities. It was useless, all this wishing—and besides, she knew she loved them just the way they were and, truth be told, wouldn't have them change for the world. They weren't boys after her own heart, but they were Harry James Potter and Ronald Arthur Weasley, and they _had_ her heart anyway. 

Most especially Harry. 

'…Isn't she, Hermione?' 

Hermione's bushy head bobbed up sharply, and she nodded to give the pretence that she had been paying attention (Her two-things-at-a-time function was a bit off today, it seemed), although her eyes gave away her confusion.

'Yes, er… sure?' she said, blushing and smiling apologetically. 

It was Ron who'd asked the question, and he shook his head at Harry, who smirked (in a friendly way) and asked her who had been the subject of her reverie. __

Hermione, engulfed by a sense of deja vu, and colouring at the recollection at exactly who the subject of her daydream had been _earlier_, checked her watch and not-so-smoothly changed the topic. 

'We have Charms in five minutes,' she said quickly. 'I'll meet you there later—I left my _Standard Book of Spells_ in the library.' Ah. The second lie of the day—she was perfectly aware of said book tucked into her satchel in between _Advanced Arithmancy_ and a pocket version of _No More Sleekeazy's! (100 enhancing enchantments for unmanageable hair)._ Absently she pulled her rucksack closer to her and covered it with her arm.

'All right.' A frowning Harry and a nodding, rather confused-looking Ron got up and headed to the boys' tower. 

'Well, at least they're predictable.' Hermione, choosing not to mind the expressions on their faces, stood up and collected her things, and went the opposite way to her own dormitory. 

***

_Hermione Granger's Diary_

**_A+'s Achieved in term:_**

**_||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||_**

**_A-'s Achieved in term:_**

**_| _**_(Potions, you understand)_

**_B+'s Achieved in term_**

_Dear Diary, (That sounded really juvenile, but I honestly couldn't think of anything better..)_

_It seems like everyone wants to bore me to death. Maybe it's just the heat wave. I really should have researched cooling charms, it stupid the way I skipped it in the book Ginny got for me… _

_In Arithmancy, Madam Vector didn't show because she's in the hospital wing. No doubt why she got sick… Anyway, it was very dull in there. I felt too dreary to take any notes, except that outline of chapter 6, which I only finished halfway. Well, I guess I should be grateful – two of those horrible Slytherins went to the infirmary too, so I only had to deal with three. Malfoy was being a stupid prat as usual, mumbling about how I was daydreaming about Harry. I was, but that doesn't really give him a right to taunt me, does it? _

_Afterwards, in morning break, I met up with Ron and Harry in Gryffindor tower. They just came from another session of Divination, so they were in an ill mood as usual. Really, they should just sign up for Arithmancy. The boys kept garbling to themselves for about four minutes while I tried to squeeze in bits of advice between the insults directed at that horrible Professor. I really want them to join Arithmancy (though I don't think they'd want to if they knew we have that with Slytherins – I haven't really told them lest they have one more reason to not want to take it), but they can't change classes now, we're in sixth year already. Harry will just have to suffer. Ron, too._

_In Charms, I was hoping Professor Flitwick would teach us Cooling Charms – I checked the temperature again and it was 35 degrees Celsius. But Professor Flitwick gave us all short written exams about last week's essay, which I of course finished immediately. I had about half an hour to spare after that. _

_I have to take a shower now; it really would feel very good to get a cold shower in before lunch. _

_Hermione G. _

_ PS—we had a quiz in Advanced Muggle Studies today and the Professor held me back after class and told me that she'd glanced over my paper ('It does give me _such_ pleasure to do so!'). That's another A+ to add to the list._

* * *

Notice how often Draco says 'Bloody'. :) Tell me what you think with a review or an e-mail, and I _implore_ you to be nice about it.  


	2. Squids and Squabbles

A Way With Words 2

A/n: Sorry this took so long to post. It was kind of stupid of me to post chapter one of two series at once, no? Well, here it is. Oh, and I must remind you that I'm a d/h and h/h shipper before you go on. And I am well aware that Ron and Harry probably aren't ones to keep a diary, but hey, I need it. And sorry if the formatting is confusing, but sometimes ff.net destroys my italics and everyone ends up all perplexed. Oh, and this, and every other fic I'll be uploading, is set at British English Language so sorry if it confuses non-Europeans. I do apologise if I sound like some ancient English Author at times (that's what my beta-reader said, but she approved of it). I've been reading a lot of classics lately. And… how long do you have to _not _breathe to die? I'm not sure. Is all. Go on!

Disclaimer: Bleeding – ahem. Go to chapter One for Disclaimer. Oh, and I included a scene here inspired by one mentioned in Asuka Langley's Made of You, I think. I tried to email her (which was part of the reason why this took so long), but… Please don't sue me! 

A Way with Words 

Chapter two: Squids and Squabbles

__

Friday. Bloody hot. Divination today. Professor Trelawney was making those damn predictions as usual, but this one was a bit more upsetting than her 'death hovers among us, my children' bull. It had something to do with Harry and true love. Of course, Harry was embarrassed, and I rather think it upset him more when Lavender and Parvati shrieked and giggled. I couldn't help myself and said something rather, er, rude to them. Professor Trelawney gave me a detention for being uncouth to her favorite students. Old hag. But a detention couldn't be worse than Doubles of her own shoddy class, could it? I have to sleep now, early detention tomorrow. I can't believe they're making me do one on a Saturday morning. Damn them… 

Ron W.

***

__

'Hermione? Ron?'

They were both there, waving at him and motioning over. Standing over a clear blue sky and on a patch of bright green grass, they looked happy and slightly… ethereal. They were both wearing severe white ensembles – Hermione in a ballooning white dress, Ron in a white shirt and trousers. Harry smiled, called out to his friends again, and he stretched his arm to reach for the two of them and started to run. 

Suddenly, a dark cloud came up over his allies, though it appeared to be moving in slow motion. Ron and Hermione stopped waving and a look of terror came upon both faces. Hermione called to him to stop and run away, and Ron followed suit. Harry stopped in his tracks as the dark veil obscured Ron and Hermione from vision. Harry heard their terrified shrieks as Harry screamed in fear himself. Suddenly the cloud covered everything, even the space around him, until he was surrounded in black nothingness. Then the ground, or whatever it had been, gave way, and he felt himself falling, falling…

Harry woke up in a cold sweat. _Bleeding hell, _he thought. It was the first dream he had ever had with Ron and Hermione in it. Or at least the first relevant, dark one (A/N get your mind out of the gutter…). 

Harry felt around in the dark for the curtain-rope, and pulled it to open the drapes. He then rummaged blindly in his bedside table for his glasses, unable to make out a shape. Remnants of the dream swirled through his mind as he slipped on his glasses and wiped his sweaty brow. He padded out of bed, and went to the pitcher by the window for a drink. His throat was dry and definitely needed water. As he poured himself some into a goblet, he looked out the window into the velvety purple-and-blue sky. It wasn't even morning yet. Stars twinkled in the Heavens, soothing him at least a little. He sat on the sill. The stone bricks were so thick that one could sit, or half-lie, on the sill, without danger of falling. He sat with his back to the side of the window, and lifted his leg up to rest his feet on the ledge as well. As he watched the stars sparkle against the dark background, he contemplated going to Dumbledore and telling him about his dream. The old man did say to go to him if any more dreams occurred. But this one seemed so irrelevant, so trivial compared to the ones he had been having about two years ago. And of course, since he found death-predictions from his Divination Professor rather discouraging and after the incident with the 'Grim' in third year, he wasn't one to believe in omens, not to mention any other form of divination, at all. 

After a few minutes of quiet star-gazing and contemplation, Harry came to a decision: He would tell Dumbledore if any events related to his latest reverie would occur, and he wouldn't waste time thinking about omens and whatnot. But of course, as he slipped into bed and closed the curtains around him, he couldn't help wondering what ever the dream could mean. It was obvious, really, but he didn't quite want to believe the connotation that had immediately entered his head. It was too grim and pessimistic. But, he thought as he slipped off his black-rimmed glasses, who couldn't help being bleeding pessimistic at a time like this? 

***

__

Diary, 

More dreams. I hate them, really I do. I think I've had less peaceful nights than the whole student body put together. Just one of those disadvantages of being Harry Potter. This one had Ron and Hermione in it. Do you think that could mean something? OK, now I'm being really pathetic. Confiding in a journal is one thing, but asking it questions… At least you _don't talk back, like Ginny's diary. Poor girl, but at least she had someone to tell her woes and they would actually answer back. _

I have to go to bed – we're off to Hogsmeade tomorrow, but I doubt we can really go. It's so unbelievably hot_. _

Harry Potter

Hermione joined Ron and Harry in the Common Room that morning after lunch. She apologised profusely for having slept in, saying her essay on Ancient Runes, which was due on Tuesday, kept her awake. Ron was back from a very early detention of helping 'that old hag', as Ron had taken to calling Professor Trelawney, clean out her classroom and arrange the jars of sickening former organisms in the high shelves (Professor Trelawney had been a scientist in the Muggle world before she took the Divination job, if one could imagine), as Ron was so tall. It wasn't as bad as detention with Snape, but it wasn't Ron's cup of tea either. 

The three of them wanted to go to Hogsmeade, but they were hesitant, as yesterday's heat wave hadn't lifted just yet. The streets of Hogsmeade were sure to be hotter. 

'Besides,' said Ron as they headed downstairs, 'we can always go later.'

'Uh-huh.' Hermione was looking thoughtful and bit her lip, eyes on the ceiling. She had donned a yellow sundress under her robes, and her hair was gathered in a ponytail on the top of her head. 'Hm. So what are we doing?'

The heat seemed to muddle all their brains, as each was finding it very difficult to think. 'I don't know.' Harry wiped his glasses on his shirt as they jumped off the last of the marble steps to Gryffindor tower. All he wanted was to get some cool, fresh air, or perhaps go for a swim somewhere, the former unlikely, the latter impossible in Hogwarts. 'I don't want to go upstairs right now, Fred and George are trying new jokes on the second-years. It's going to be fiery hot outside…'

'Maybe we should go to Hogsmeade instead.' (A/N I know this exchange is most likely boring you to tears, but I can't do much else…) Ron shuffled his feet and led his friends outside. Just as they were passing through the gate, Hermione stopped and called, 'You guys go on ahead. I'll catch you up.'

'Sure.' Harry was desperate to get some roof above his head, and paid no attention to Hermione's leaving herself behind seemingly being a work of design. The sun was seemingly singeing his jet-black mop of hair and, eager to get away, waved to Hermione. 'See you later – one-thirty, Three Broomsticks!'

Hermione waved to them as well and turned on her heel to go back to the castle, her robes swirling behind her. Harry and Ron raced to Hogsmeade, eager to get to the village.

***

Even with his archenemies out of sight and the grounds being lovely, Draco Malfoy found himself unable to find pleasure in anything. He sighed inwardly. It was already unbelievably hot, and the ever annoying Pansy Parkinson simpering on his arm made him even more uncomfortable. He asked himself why he even put up with her, as she awoke in him unbelievable sensations of revulsion. No logical explanations came to mind and Draco contented himself in the belief that this was all for the better. 

He and Pansy were strolling in the grounds, the trips to Hogsmeade having lost their novelty. Crabbe and Goyle had abandoned them to spend the day bullying the House-Elves for some food (Draco had told them where the kitchens were to get rid of the two). Pansy had her eyes closed and her head on his shoulder. She was wearing black robes, not the ones for school, though. Draco wondered how she could stand them, the weather being exceedingly scorching. 

As they neared the lake, they spotted a familiar figure with long brown hair sitting on the edge, relaxing with a book. Draco contorted his face into a smirk he reserved only for that girl, and looked at Pansy, who was grinning maliciously. They walked in silence until they were right behind Ms Hermione Granger. Pansy cleared her throat and smiled snobbishly as Granger turned her head to look at them. 

'What do you want, Parkinson, Malfoy?' she asked in an uncharacteristically indolent manner. Granger snapped the book closed and set it on the ground beside her. 

Pansy didn't answer and looked deviously at Ms Granger. 'How come you're here alone, Mudblood? Potty and Weasel left you for each other?' She asked in a baby-ish voice. 'Tsk, tsk, how sad.' 

Shocking! Draco grinned to himself at the idea of Granger's two best friends 'leaving her' for each other and absently snaked his arm around Pansy's waist. He felt Pansy shiver in pleasure and pull him closer possessively, smiling smugly at Hermione.

Hermione's face didn't change expression as she stood up and tucked her book beneath her arm. Then she smiled to match Pansy's, a smile Draco had seen only when she had said, 'Twitchy little ferret, aren't you, Malfoy?' Hoping he wasn't going to be reminded of his activities as 'Draco Malfoy, the amazing bouncing ferret', he watched the exchange interestedly. 

'Well, at least they didn't leave me for a Pug-faced little (here was one of the more distinguished words in her vocabulary) such as yourself, Ms Parkinson.' 

Pansy's face contorted into a scowl. Draco could sense danger coming, and wanted to pull the girls away from each other and put as much distance between them as possible, but was afraid he would appear less… mean. So he stepped back, bracing himself for the sight of Pansy throwing a hex at the other girl. 

But Pansy seemed to want to do more than a simple little curse, an idea obvious from the way she stepped forward and grinned wickedly. 

'Fancy a swim, Mudblood?' Before the Gryffindor had a chance to grasp Pansy's words she was shoved into the great lake. 

Draco felt horror and anger bubbling up inside of him as the smirk left his face and a yell for Pansy Parkinson escaped his lips. 

'Pansy! What in bloody hell do you think you are doing?' He shouted wildly. What would become of her? What if the squid, the merpeople attacked her? They would surely be blamed! 'There are all sorts of things in there!' Then, without thinking or even removing his shirt (which, by the way, would have provided sufficient amusement for Pansy), he dove into the dank water, leaving behind a confused and ashen-faced Parkinson. 

He searched for Hermione's body in the tarn. Then Draco spotted a white, brown and yellow figure floating a few feet away. He swam towards her with speed borne of innumerable swimming lessons, heedless of the tentacle that was coming his and Hermione's way. He sped towards her and, upon reaching her frail body, took it in his arms and pulled it close. He ignored the sensations that rushed through him at her closeness. She looked slightly ethereal in the water, with her hair floating carelessly around her in the attitude of a fan and her skin porcelain-white. They were both a bit deep into the water now (he could see what looked like a merperson's dwelling some yards away). He couldn't breathe, and felt himself wishing for a gust of air, when he noticed that Hermione wasn't breathing as well. _Stupid! Of course she isn't breathing! _Panic rose inside of him and he swam as fast as his legs would bring him with Hermione in his arms to the surface of the water. 

The sun's blinding rays reached his eyes and he blinked. He was well above the water now, and he could spot Pansy standing a few yards away, looking as if she were contemplating calling for help. He dragged Hermione up to the edge of the lake and drew her up to the grass. His clothes, wet with water, clung uncomfortably to his body and lake water made his silver hair stick to his forehead, but he tried to concentrate on the matter at hand. Draco kneeled beside her, as Hermione lay, immobile, on the edge of the water. She still wasn't breathing, and her white countenance and lips were slowly turning a purplish blue. 

__

Oh, no, Draco thought_, I have to do something! If she dies…_

'Pansy!' he yelled at his 'girlfriend'. Panicked, Pansy gathered her robes hurriedly, ran to Draco and kneeled beside him, with more concern for her being in danger of expulsion than for Hermione's well-being. Then she turned to him.

'We can leave her here,' said Pansy, looking around to make sure no one was in sight. She looked at Draco again. 'No one will suspect us, and they haven't any proof we had anything to do with this. Come on, before someone comes out and catches us!' She stood up and pulled on his arm, trying to yank him up. But Draco looked at her, unmoving, an expression of revulsion and horror on his damp face. 

'Leave her here? We can't f***ing do that, Pansy!'

'And why the hell not, Draco?' Pansy's eyes blazed as she discovered another way of looking at the circumstances. 'You can't be saying you care for her health! Why –'

'Don't you get mad at me, you little witch!' said Draco, standing up and towering over the girl. Never did he think Pansy to be _this _stupid and uncaring! Hers was incredibly the worst plan he'd ever heard in his entire life. 'You're the one fool enough to push her in! Don't you know what's in that lake, you stupid girl? You, or worse, _I _could get expelled! Think of what our parents would say!' 

The full gravity of the situation hit her with force, and the vexation, the agitation Pansy felt was beyond what she could conceal – she looked nervous, mortified, and grieved at the same time. Pansy cowered and tears started pouring out of her eyes. 'I'm sorry – I wasn't thinking –'

__

Like hell you weren't. Draco didn't give her a chance to explain. He shoved her aside and resumed his position beside the unconscious girl. He hesitated for a moment, then looked around. No one but Pansy would see, and she wouldn't be daft enough to tell anyone, would she? So he swooped down on her and began to perform Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, as Pansy looked on, both scared of her standing in the situation and horrified at the sight of her boyfriend 'kissing' a Mudblood.

***

Harry and Ron walked out of Honeydukes, both feeling slightly more elated than they did that morning. Ron was chewing on a piece of Liquorice Wands, and Harry was licking fudge sample off his fingers. They stood for a second, relishing the animating gales of cool wind on their faces. Both now pitied the rationale that had prevented their best friend from sharing such a pleasing sensation.

'Mmmm,' he murmured, 'that fudge was extremely tasty. Too bad Hermione didn't come.'

Ron swallowed his sweet and licked his lips. 'Well, she said she'd meet us at the Three Broomsticks, no? So we can show her later.' 

But Harry wasn't listening – he was staring at some point over Ron's shoulder. 

Ron turned around to see what it was, and sighed exasperatedly at seeing Cho Chang, who was doing an extra year of Hogwarts to study Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts, and some of her groupies, walk jauntily out of Honeydukes. 

He blew a wet raspberry at Harry. 

'Don't you _ever _get sick of looking at her, Potter?' 

Harry snapped out of it and tried in vain to look as if he had no idea what Ron was saying. Eyes averted, he developed a fervent interest in fixing his packages. 'What? I wasn't looking.' 

Ron blew air through his teeth and shook his head at Harry. He knew from when they were struggling to get dates for the Yule ball that Cho Chang was, perhaps without rival, the object of his friend's affections. Poor guy. He had thoughts of Ms Chang being involved in Professor Trelawney's prediction, and tried to stifle a snigger. Fat chance. For once he decided not to tease Harry about it – it was too pleasant a day for that. 

Whilst making jokes about Professor Trelawney being a mortician (see the connection with death?) rather than 'science student' before Divination Professor, the two walked up High street, heading for The Three Broomsticks, where they were to meet Hermione for a Butterbeer or two. Hoping they wouldn't have to wait too long for her, Harry and Ron pushed the heavy door open. 

The customers sitting near the door, namely a few Ministry wizards and an ill-disguised Hag, looked up at the gust of wind that entered the restaurant. They averted their eyes at the sight of Harry Potter, and, ergo, Harry pretended not to register their existence. 

He and Ron swept to the back of the room, and sat at one of the wooden tables. A lady in turquoise heels came to serve them, and Ron's ears were overspread with a typical blush. 

'Hello there,' said Madame Rosmerta with a smile. Ron looked away and pretended to be looking for Hermione. Harry, avoiding risking being out of Ron's good favours, never laughed at him for these little peculiarities, and found it unnecessary to begin now. He turned to Madame Rosmerta and returned her grin. 

'A Butterbeer, please,' he said politely. Ron nodded and said, 'The same, Ma'am.' 

The lady told them to wait, and asked if Hermione Granger would be joining them soon. 'You're almost never in here without her,' she observed. 

Harry told her that Hermione would indeed be joining them later, but that he was unsure whether Hermione would want something else, she would order when she came, and would Madame Rosmerta come to their table when she did. Madame Rosmerta nodded her acquiescence and strode away to get their drinks. 

Now Ron really was looking for Hermione. He craned his neck to get a look at the door and the other customers – perhaps she had come in while they were talking to Madame Rosmerta – to no avail. 

Harry checked his watch and his eyes widened. 'Hey Weasley,' he nudged his friend. Ron snapped to attention. 'It's already two o'clock!'

'What?' exclaimed Ron in a loud voice of mortification. He unwittingly attracted the attention of a few diners. Ron checked his own watch. 'Damn, you're right.'

'Lighten up, Ron,' said Harry soothingly to his friend, while he himself was rather worried about Hermione; Ms Perfect was always punctual, never late. What if she had come exactly on time and left when they didn't? Harry made an effort to appear calm. 'She's probably on her way right now.' 

For fear of being regarded as a worry-wart, Ron sat back in his seat, feigning calm. 'Right.' 

After some moments, the two found themselves in danger of sinking into complete silence. Harry twiddled his thumbs and looked at the ceiling, as if finding the woodwork extremely interesting. Ron cleared his throat every few seconds and surreptitiously turned his eyes to the door repeatedly. 

They were rescued by Madame Rosmerta, who came bearing their drinks on a tray. She placed a plate of marshmallows and chocolate biscuits in front of them, a ritual of hers and the three friends. Rosmerta had taken a liking to them, especially Hermione, who, like her, seemed to enjoy schoolwork, among other things. 

Harry, always the nice little one, smiled at her and said his thanks. Rosmerta smiled back as he reached for a marshmallow and nudged the plate towards Ron, who declined. 

Madame Rosmerta left them, saying she would give them the bill after Hermione came. Ron nodded to that and finally took a biscuit, chewing it absentmindedly. 

Neither could mask the agitation they felt. Harry, in want of something to do, concentrated on his watch as his friend continued to be oblivious of all else but himself, his biscuit, and the door. 

The hands of his watch ticked away the seconds; it was already ten past two. What could have happened? Hermione would have waited for them, not run off. He remembered Hermione's waking up late this morning and wondered if she had slept in again. But no, she wouldn't let herself do that; she still had some extra credit project for Professor Binns. He had a thought of his dream being involved in all this, but angrily pushed it into the back of his head, thinking he was getting carried away. 

The scraping of a chair was heard, and Harry's head snapped up and he sat straighter. Ron was putting his hat on his head, checking his parcels, and looking to the door. 

'Where you going?' asked Harry. 

Ron pulled at his collar and said, 'I'm looking for her.' 

Harry was rather glad he had initiated the search; he was getting rather anxious himself. He told Ron to wait outside, and as Ron trudged agitatedly to the door, he sought out Madame Rosmerta. 

'Harry!' Madame Rosmerta was behind the counter. Her eyes widened at the vexed look on Harry's countenance. 'What's wrong?' 

Harry pulled his moneybag out of his pocket and took out two Galleons. 'Hermione was supposed to meet us some time ago,' he began, 'and we're getting a bit worried.' He looked anxiously at the door, through which he could see Ron tapping his foot impatiently on the ground. Harry put the Galleons on the counter and hurried away, saying behind his shoulder; 'Keep the change, Madame Rosmerta.' 

Packages in arms, he pushed open the door with his shoulder. Ron looked up at the sight of him, and both walked hastily back to Hogwarts gates. 

***

'_Breathe, _Dammit!' he yelled, desperate. 

Draco shook her by the shoulders, his mind racing. He was so nervous as to actually consider Pansy's plan – but even if they did leave Hermione here to die, Albus Dumbledore would still know; he knew _everything _that went on, something he knew from an incident in fifth year. 

He swooped down on Hermione and tried breathing life into her again. He kept telling himself, among other things, that his lips on hers was nothing at all, and that he was doing this as much for his benefit as hers. But he knew in his breast it really wasn't 'nothing'. He _should _have cared less, but he _didn't. _He was increasingly worried about her health. Draco knew by now he had strong feelings for the girl – they definitely weren't _hate_, that was for sure. But she did hate _him_, didn't she?He succeeded in keeping his features steady as he continued with an activity he knew she would more than disapprove of, were she awake. Still, his closeness to her disturbed him very badly, and he couldn't help turning a few shades of pink as he tried to revive her. Thankfully, Pansy wasn't looking. 

Pansy was keeping watch, Draco supposed, to keep her mind off what Draco was doing. He knew she was mortified by his trying to save her, but more from how he was doing it than why. Draco thought privately that she deserved to feel bad at this time – it was all _her _fault, after all! It was one of the few benefits of his decision to help her.

Draco turned back to Hermione. He paled further. It was almost a full two minutes since she'd breathed, and the possibilities of her dying weighed on him. There was a pulse, but it was irregular and slow. Again he tried to perform mouth-to-mouth, hoping very badly that he would, at length (no, perhaps not at _length_) succeed. 

He lifted his lips from hers and scrutinised her face for a sign of recovery. 

At long last her eyelids fluttered open. There was time only for the quickest arrangement of mind. He must be collected, calm, and mean – no sign at all of relief, attachment, whatsoever. He inched away from her a bit and kept his countenance straight, bracing himself for Hermione's reaction as she slowly stirred. 

'Malfoy?' she breathed. 

***

Harry socked himself on the head as an idea came to mind. 

'Stupid!' cried he. 

Ron stopped running and looked at him in surprise. 'What the bloody heck is the matter now?' asked he, afraid of further consternation. 

Both were standing in the marble staircase heading to Gryffindor Tower, fresh from a quick run from the Three Broomsticks, looking for Hermione. Harry didn't reply; instead he stuck his hand in his robes, feeling around for a secret pocket. 

'Why didn't I think of this before?' he muttered under his breath. Triumphant, he drew the Marauder's Map from his clothes. 

Ron's eyes widened. 'I didn't know you carried that with you!' 

Harry ignored him and perused the map. 'I don't think she's in Hogsmeade,' he said quietly. 'She would have stayed in a shop closer to the Three Broomsticks if she was.' Ron looked over his shoulder and began reading the delineation. He ran his finger over the page, and squinted his eyes to read the diminutive writing. There was headmaster Dumbledore, in Professor McGonagall's office (he did not want to think about what activities they were engaged in), Filch and Mrs Norris in a used classroom, and Lavender and Seamus somewhere near the Astronomy tower (same with the Professors). Hermione was evidently not in the castle – perhaps the grounds? Harry's eyes started to hurt from all the squinting. 

He gave a start when Ron's finger suddenly darted to the parchment and he yelled, 'There she is!' 

Harry looked at where he was pointing, and gave a small gasp. The names by the two dots closest to her read: 

'Draco Malfoy' and 'Pansy Parkinson', the former situated uncomfortably close to Hermione's. 

***

'Malfoy?' 

Draco stiffened. He hated the sound of that name, utterly hated it. This assisted him quite nicely with the scowl on his face, however. 

'Awake?' he asked, careful to keep his voice as indifferent as possible. 

Hermione blinked, and sat up straight quickly. Mortification rushed to her countenance and her eyes widened. 

'What happened?' she demanded. 

He inched away again, afraid of what she might do to him. A curse was the best she could do, of course, but he certainly wouldn't curse _her._ No, nothing in the world could make him hurt _her. _

Except perhaps his father. 

Hermione looked like she was trying to remember what happened. She glanced, no, _glared _at Pansy, as if recalling that Pansy, who was unaware that she was conscious, pushed her into the water. Her gaze then was directed to Draco, and a look of horror crossed her face. 

'You – you saved me, didn't you?' she asked in a baffled voice. 

He averted his eyes and stood up. '_Gee_, no, I just _happened _to be here when you awoke.' It was a feeble attempt at wit, but he really could do no better – he was too overcome with nervousness at what she might do – would she ask how he saved her? What a burden that would be to both! Would she tell others to shame him? But then that would be shaming her too – _why _didn't he contemplate this before? 

Unconscious of his inner conflict, Hermione tried to stand up. She took his hand; whether he had not himself made the first motion, he could not say – he might have, perhaps, offered it – she took his hand and he tried to help her get up from her position on the grass. 

Hermione looked unable to stand on her own two feet; her knees shook and give way, and she plopped unceremoniously back down on the grass. 'I –' she stuttered, 'I c-can't stand up.' 

'Duh,' said Draco under his breath. This made things a little harder – he and Pansy would have to help her up and get to the infirmary, for there was no one in sight – cursed, cursed Pansy! 

He looked to where Pansy was standing. 'Pansy!' he called. The girl automatically looked up at him and Hermione, and seemed further distressed by the fact that he was holding her hand. 

'You – you got her to wake up?' she asked feebly, sounding rather sorry for Draco's success. Draco himself was starting to regret it, just a little bit.

'Yes, Ms Parkinson,' said Draco, agitated. 'Get over here!' he barked. Pansy looked rather hurt at his cold tone, but Draco could not feel sorry for _her_. No, this was all her doing – in fact, she should be grateful he did this. She was not to know, of course, that he did not in any case do this for herself. 

Pansy scrambled up from her stance on the ground and rushed to the two of them, eager to set the two apart. Draco looked at his and Hermione's clasped hands and instantly let go. A small blush spread over her cheeks, contrasting much with her very pale skin. Hermione looked like she was thinking very, very hard of what to do, and that, he supposed, would not include hobble hobbling up the stairs to the infirmary with these two Slytherins. She most likely thought, too, that they wouldn't be willing to help her anyway. 

Pansy looked at Hermione like she was something very nasty under her boots, but did not speak, for fear that Draco would bark at her if she did, whatever she said. He looked very prone to barking right now, indeed. 

None spoke. They were like that for some time, Pansy glaring at Hermione, Hermione returning Pansy's glower whilst thinking what to do, and Draco admiring how alert her eyes appeared and the brilliancy a blush added to her countenance, while, same as Ms Granger, thinking what he could do. 

At length, he sighed exasperatedly and asked the invalid, 'what do we do?' 

Hermione appeared troubled. Obviously she had not planned to spend her afternoon thinking how to get to the Hospital Wing with two Death-Eater children. Who knows, they might be Death-Eaters themselves. 'I – I don't know,' she sighed extensively. 

Pansy couldn't help herself. 'What is the world coming to!' she exclaimed sardonically. 'Ms Granger actually doesn't _know_!'

Draco raised his hand to hit her; Pansy cowered, bracing herself for a blow, but he caught himself in time. He was not going to resort to physical pain – that was for Crabbe and Goyle. And hitting Pansy Parkinson! What was he thinking! He was awfully sorry for that, but he wasn't about to say that to her. Draco took a calming breath and scowled characteristically at her. 

'Pansy,' he said in an angry, strained manner used by his father on his mother. 'If you are not going to be of any assistance, it would be best for _all _of us,' said he, chancing a glance at Hermione, who was watching him with a horrified expression, 'if you took your leave.' 

Right now Pansy, mindless of what could conspire between the two if left alone, nodded meekly at Draco and didn't even frown at Hermione. She simply gathered her robes and scattered away, eager to escape from Draco's anger. 

Draco turned to Hermione. She was looking around her and trying to get her clothes unstuck from her skin. With a blush did Draco observe how her robes clung to her pleasant curves. 

Hermione felt his gaze on her and looked up. A blush to match his. He was thinking of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and, from the colour of her face, her mind wasn't very differently engaged. 

She cleared her throat. 

'So.' 

He shuffled his feet. 

'Um.' 

She made another attempt to loosen her clothes around her. 

'Er.' 

Draco threw his hands up in exasperation. 

'Oh, sod this!' he exclaimed. To Hermione's surprise, he swooped down on her and put a hand on her waist, another under her presently incompetent legs. Her breath was caught in her throat as Draco lifted her up from the ground. 

His face was stiff and indifferent, carefully kept so. He looked at her and muttered, '_Breathe_, Granger. I didn't revive you just to let you die all over again.' 

Hermione, embarrassed, let out a small breath. 

All of a sudden, both heard two voices coming from the entrance to the castle. Both stiffened as well – what could be worse than being caught in wet clothes at such an awkward situation as this? 

'Sometimes I _hate _this castle for being so large,' a familiar voice panted. 

Hermione and Draco paled. They really did _not _need an answer to the question. Evidently it was being caught in wet clothes at such an awkward situation _by her best friends_. 

Ron and Harry ran out of the castle in a hurry. Hermione turned a paler shade of white when she saw Harry carrying an ancient, very brittle piece of parchment. Ron was looking around wildly, doubtless for her. 

Harry caught sight of them and scowled. Not bothering to call Ron, he ran to Draco and Hermione as fast as he could. 

He skidded to a stop in front of them. 

'Hermione,' he panted, gracing Draco with a frown (which Draco returned most generously), 'What in bloody hell _are _you doing?' 

Ron came up behind him, wearing an identical glower to Harry's. Hermione, Draco observed, was redder than a tomato, and looking exceedingly uncomfortable. It was sort of a nice change from her haughty, 'Honestly!' look. 

'Look,' said Draco, and the two boys' glares grew more violent. 'Let me explain,' he continued, in a slow voice that one would use to speak to someone who 'didn't get it'. Hermione squirmed in his arms and he pulled her a bit closer, not close enough, though, to be noticed by Harry and Ron. 

'Pansy Parkinson pushed Mudblood Granger' (taking note of the small flash of hurt in Hermione's eyes) 'into that lake. See there?' he said, nodding to the river. Harry crossed his arms across his chest, and Draco, remembering what he had seen in Ms Granger's diary the day before, frowned. 

Ron's glare subsided a bit and he looked at Hermione with concern. He gave Draco a look that said very clearly, 'What happened, you jerk?' 

'I got her out of the water,' said Draco with a bit of difficulty. He did not need to mention mouth-to-mouth resuscitation at all, did he? 

'C-can I talk?' said Hermione in an agitated manner. Harry and Ron looked at her, and she seemed to sink further into him under their very penetrating gazes. 

'I couldn't walk,' she said meekly, eyes averted. 'For some reason. And he couldn't very well leave me there, could he? Dumbledore would know.' Her confidence grew as she spoke, and, like Draco, she didn't appear to think it necessary to mention how Draco revived her. He also noted her mentioning Dumbledore – it was sufficient for an explanation to the two boys, but surely she didn't really think that?

'Uh-huh.' Harry looked uncomfortable for a moment. After a few moments' contemplation he stretched out his arms from her. Draco, sorry that he had to let go of her but not at all regretting that Harry would be taking her to the Hospital Wing instead of him (what if someone else saw?), gently put her in Harry's arms. Hermione's cheek was now burning under their attention, and Draco, in attempt to lessen her discomfort, stepped back a bit. Harry seemed unaffected by her weight, and wordlessly turned back to walk off to the castle. Ron followed them, but with a glance at Draco. Draco, after breathing a sigh of relief that it was all over with, and not at all thinking the two owed him anything, traipsed off to the Slytherin dungeons. 

A/N: Er. OK! What's going to happen now? What if this leaks out to the student body? Trouble ahead. Oh, and in contrast with what Draco thinks, it is _not _over with. 


	3. Say My Name

A/N Hullo

A/N Hullo! I'm afraid this chapter won't be as good as the last one. The last one was nice, wasn't it? I think it's the best I've ever written. This one is a bit longer than Ch. 2, thankfully. Oh, and I'm running a poll on who you peeps would like Hermione to end up with, and so far the Leather God is winning. And to compensate if you find yourself disappointed: Just in case this turns out to be a d/h, I am currently writing three h/h series, two already posted but still not finished, one still in progress and set in 2006. And just in case this turns out to be a d/h, I have what, two, three other d/h stories up, and am working on one that Remmirath would very willingly tell you about. ::looks down:: notice the bad grammar and want of eloquence in Pansy's diary. What a *@?!# 

Rating note: This part contains just a tiny bit of kissing. A very tiny bit, OK? And some very, very few swear words.

Disclaimer: What you could possibly recognise, be it a word, a phrase, or a name, I don't own. The title very evidently isn't mine.

_This chapter is very lovingly dedicated to: Remmirath, who probably won't read this but is still a very good friend; my dear mother, who is trying to read everything I write (but I won't let her); the few faithful reviewers; and my new laptop, which does formatting better than my old computer. _

A Way with Words 

Chapter Three: Say My Name

_Dearest Diary, _

_Draco was so mean to me today. He yelled at me and was about to hit me It was so humiliating because Mudblood Granger was there. _

_Draco and me were walking by the lake, when I pushed her in because she said something really bad about me. Draco got all mad and started yelling at me and – get this – he _saved _her! And – and he saved her with mouth-to-mouth I was so jealous I almost exploded. He told me to go away and I did. I was really sorry I made him mad, but I'm _not _sorry I pushed that little slut in. I'll get her for this, I swear. _

_Pansy P – er, Parkson – Parkinson? _

***

Harry looked down at Hermione, who was avoiding his eyes and concentrating on the portraits they passed. The fact that her clothes, hair, and skin were wet and a bit mucky with lake water was sufficient evidence enough to prove that she had indeed been in the Lake, and the state Draco Malfoy's clothes and person were in was ample indication that Malfoy had been in there with her. Harry wrinkled his nose in thought – if the story she and Draco told him and Ron was true (and he fervently hoped it was), she was pushed into the Great Lake by Pansy Parkinson – why, then, was Pansy not there when they came? He sincerely hoped Hermione was telling him the truth, and all of it, but could not ask her if she was – he was afraid he would sound like Ron did in fourth year; protective, suspicious and jealous all at the same time. 

Ron was lagging behind them, holding both Harry's Honeydukes parcels and his, and refusing to go and store them in the boys' dormitories first. Harry rather wished that it was he who was carrying Hermione – not because he did not like to be so close to her, but because he felt he liked it so much he didn't know if he could keep his face straight. – He was already well aware that his cheeks were tinged pink to match Hermione's. It was a good thing, therefore, that Ron was behind him, and Hermione seemed to feel too awkward to look – he was exceedingly glad neither could see his countenance. 

The three came to a stop in front of the Infirmary door. Just as Hermione was going to knock (evidently Harry's and Ron's hands were full) Albus Dumbledore, the man of most impeccable timing, opened it and came striding out. 

Harry stepped back to let the Headmaster pass. Dumbledore, who was wearing his usual deep purple robes, caught sight of them and smiled, a typical twinkle in his blue eyes. Harry wondered what that twinkle could mean – he was amused? That rather irritated him, as he didn't think his holding his best friend like she was a damsel in distress (which, come to think of it, she was) was amusing in the least. 

Hello, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, Ms Granger,' said he, smiling characteristically at them. 

Perhaps Ron sensed his friends didn't want to talk, and that if no one replied it would be awkward for all of them, for he said in a bright, atypically polite voice, Hello, Headmaster Dumbledore, sir.' 

Dumbledore smiled at him, and gave him a questioning look with his penetrating eyes. Ron shrugged; knowing the Headmaster knew what happened anyway, and that this silent enquiry was merely a gesture of humility? Concern? Courteousness? He didn't know.

The headmaster turned to Harry and Hermione, both of whom were immensely eager to get in the infirmary and get a distance of at least fifteen feet from each other to remove the memories of the other's touch from their skin. Dumbledore then asked, to the surprise of each at his bluntness that followed immediately an interrogative glance; Where is Mr Malfoy?' 

In his astonishment Harry nearly dropped Hermione, and, to the great discomfort of both, she clung to his neck to keep from falling, bringing her face closer to his than either would have liked. Dumbledore acted unaware of the embarrassment he was causing them all, even though they very well knew that he was conscious of its presence. After no response from the three of them, he sighed, smiled jovially, and tipped his wizard hat in a polite, Englishman gesture. Harry and Ron nodded at him as he swept away, whilst Hermione was too busy keeping her countenance as normal as possible to bother with anything that could be described a pleasant parting gesture. 

***

A few minutes later the famous triumvirate found themselves in the infirmary, the two boys sitting on a bed, backs to the curtains through which the silhouette of Hermione dressing herself in hospital pyjamas was visible. Ron was chewing absently on a Birtie Bott's Every Flavour Bean (strawberry jelly), looking bored. Harry was still recovering from the discomfort of having had his best friend so close to him, his countenance retaining vestiges of the blush that had overspread it only minutes earlier. His skin was a bit cold from the dampness of his robes and from the magical air-conditioning in the hospital wing. From where they were sitting they could see a small second-year girl, whom Harry recognised to be Annie Macmillan, napping some beds away. Harry wondered at her hair – the short blonde locks had turned into a mop of white strands. He supposed it must be from shock. 

Madame Pomfrey was clucking her tongue in that lecturing manner she always used when students were careless' and showed up injured at the threshold of her workplace. None had told her what happened yet, for as soon as the nurse had seen them at the door she had told Harry to lay Hermione down on a bed, no questions asked. They did not have to tell her that she had been in the lake, for the unsanitary-smelling water that soaked Hermione's clothes was so evidently from the sizeable tarn. 

Done!' Hermione called from inside the curtains. Ron's head snapped up; he swallowed the last of his sweet obediently followed Madame Pomfrey into Hermione's corner. Harry was in no hurry to see her, and took his time in hopping off the bed and setting his and Ron's packages down. Heaving a sigh, he pushed past the curtains and sat himself down on a chair beside the bed, avoiding Hermione's eyes. 

Madame Pomfrey, who was standing near the opening in Hermione's curtains, held herself up in a very familiar pre-lecture posture. 

I trust you are all wondering why Miss Granger is unable to walk?' she said in a professorial voice. The three nodded, Hermione looking like she was dreading the very explanation they all knew was coming, Ron looking like he was sure magic could cure whatever it was and that he was only staying her for support (and doubtless the air-conditioning). 

The nurse sighed uncharacteristically. The giant squid is ill.' Seeing the three's expectant And?' faces, it was apparent that this did not have the effect she so desired, and she again sighed extensively. I told the Headmaster to inform you, but I suppose he thinks it was unnecessary for the students to know' Her eyes took on a glazed look, and her nostrils flared in a way reminiscent of Professor McGonagall. Either that or he knew what was going to happen, and just didn't _care _enough to warn you, or he found it most amusing to watch you – no consideration at all as to what _I _have to do to restore you –'

Madame Pomfrey,' Hermione interrupted gently but firmly, I don't think it would have mattered had the Headmaster informed us of the squid's illness – Pansy Parkinson would have pushed me in anyway.'

And she would find it more tempting because Pansy would know what could happen if she did push Hermione in,' Ron chirped in helpfully. Harry and Hermione shot him a reprimanding look for the distaste so clearly directed towards a student in his words, even though privately they agreed with what their friend said. What? I was only trying to –'

Anyway,' Madame Pomfrey cut in sharply, causing Ron's tactless mouth to fall shut. (She did not seem at all perturbed at the knowledge that a student had caused this trouble, and Harry wondered at it.) It is obvious you do not know how the squid's illness can affect Miss Granger. Well, I'll tell you – you see, the kind of disease the squid is experiencing is the type that taints all the water and creatures around it. Merpeople are born with immunity to it, as well as some other water-dwellers. However, humans and other land-lovers are easily affected by it, and results of prolonged contact with the tainted water vary.' 

Here she paused for breath. Hermione, taking her cessation to be one people made when they are to reveal something dreadful, asked Madame Pomfrey in a timid voice: 

Is it deadly?' 

Madame Pomfrey looked shocked. Of course it's not, Miss Granger. The Headmaster, who I'm sure knew this would happen' (eyes taking on that glassy look again) does not care so very little as to risk the death of students.' 

Hermione sank back into her pillows, looking gratified now she was sure the disease was treatable. 

Has anyone else been in the water?' Madame Pomfrey asked them. 

The look of discomfort and deep colour returned to Hermione's face, and she left Harry and Ron to take the pains of informing the nurse of whom else had been drenched in the water. 

Looking irritably at his friends at being left to answer this (Ron was busy with another bean and looking innocent), Harry answered, Draco Malfoy, Ma'am.' 

Madame Pomfrey raised an eyebrow. Draco Malfoy, indeed!' She exclaimed. An unreadable expression on her aged countenance, she turned to Hermione. What, pray tell, were you and Mr Malfoy doing in the water?' She sounded like a mother demanding to know her daughter's questionable activities, making Hermione squirm.

Knowing that if she answered this with a mere nothing' she would not only awake suspicion in her friends, but also give the staff something to discuss over coffee, Hermione tried to form an answer that would give away neither too little or too much. A sickening feeling in her stomach arose at the recollection of what they _were _doing in there, but strangely enough, it came with an unnatural sensation of warmth. Choosing to ignore the latter sentiment and to focus on the nurse's inquiry, Hermione replied, with some difficulty; I was pushed into the lake. – ' (She did not want to say by whom anymore, for fear that if they gave Pansy a punishment word would spread about the whole incident and the modus operandi Draco had used to revive her would leak out.) Malfoy, of course, _had _to save me, or else he and his _girlfriend_,' she spat it out as if it were a dirty word, would get in trouble.' She was reluctant to acknowledge the sting that had gone through her at her own explanation for Malfoy's actions. 

' Madame Pomfrey looked intrigued. My, my' She seemed about to make some further comments, but apparently decided to keep her own musings to herself, lest she make the prejudice against Slytherin and the students in it worse, or perhaps give Hermione something to feel embarrassed about. For some reason Hermione felt the latter was more probable, from the look of ill-disguised amused suspicion in the nurse's eyes. 

Regaining her nurse-ly attitude, Madame Pomfrey came forward to tuck Hermione in, telling her to get some rest and assuring her that the problem would be fixed as soon as possible. Hermione, aware that protests against Madame Pomfrey's commands for her rest were futile, obeyed and sank into her covers. 

You two,' said Madame Pomfrey, turning to her two friends, would you like to get Draco Malfoy? I have to see if something is wrong with him as well.' 

It was obvious that the two boys had no desire of taking the boy who, even if he _had _saved Hermione's life, was their known archenemy. And of course they could care less if there _was _something wrong with Draco Malfoy. Harry and Ron, after meeting each other's eyes in silent agreement, shook their heads. 

Madame Pomfrey, who had not been expecting a positive response anyway, told them to Go on out and enjoy what is left of the day'. The two, after a kiss on the cheek each from Hermione (unwittingly making Madame Pomfrey stare), left with their parcels, one not pleased at having to leave the air-conditioning, the other still burning under the parting kiss from their friend. 

Hermione, sorry for the want of any company but not regretting that the feeling of unease that had gone along with Harry when he had quit the room, closed her eyes and willingly let sleep overcome her very tired, aching body. It had been a very strange day, indeed. 

***

_Saturday. Hot. _

_Now I've seen everything _

_R. W._

***

Silver eyes stared back at him Draco Malfoy surveyed himself through the mirror in the Slytherin bathrooms, emotions as horrible a mess as his silver hair. Displeased to see his pride and joy in disarray, he took his silver comb – which, understandably, he carried around with him everywhere – and ran it through his hair. Watching it separate and smooth the platinum strands, Draco thought the comb was almost indistinct from them.

Once satisfied with his appearance, he drew the comb from his hair. It had, as everyone would expect of a Malfoy accessory, a raised silver snake twisted around the intricate filigreed handle. This reminder of his ancestry caused his handsome features to twist into an unpleasant frown. He kne whe was supposed to be proud of whoever he was, as his father seemed more than satisfied, but for some reason he could not bring himself to be proud of being a Malfoy. 

_Malfoy?' _she had called him. Draco wished she hadn't. He closed his eyes and let his mind's eye sift through the recollections of earlier. He now found himself fantasising, longing, wishing for the day that the name Draco' would roll lovingly off that soft pink tongue he had so very nearly tasted in his attempts to recover her 

Draco's eyes widened. Had he just No, he couldn't, _can't _have. 

Shaking his head as though doing so would wipe the memories of the previous events from his head, Draco stepped out of the bathroom into the boys' dormitories. He looked around, eyes narrowed, for Crabbe and Goyle. Strange, he found himself wanting their company right now – around those two he didn't have to think, didn't have to say, didn't have to _do_ anything, unlike when he was with Granger. He always had to compose his features, attempt to control and ignore the beat of his heart, and think of proper words to keep his emotions concealed and hers unchanged. He usually didn't care what _anyone_ thought about him But, for some very strange reason, she must _always_ stay mad at Draco Malfoy, for it was one of those things that, despite the pain they caused, brought forth a sense of comfort, all because you could count on them always being there. 

For a second he regretted ever making her mad at him in the first place – perhaps he would have felt better about maintaining her good opinion, rather than her offensive one. But then he caught himself, reprimanded himself for allowing his brain to produce such sentiments (he was incorrect -- obviously he did not realise that it was his heart that had done so), and tried answering to his own if-only', for once. – No matter what his first actions to her were, she was always going to hate him, for the way he was raised, his family, his _house, _and really, for the way he just was. Hermione Granger hating Draco Malfoy and (supposedly) vice-versa. That was the way the world worked, and should work.

Depressing thoughts such as these always obtruded, of course, but Draco could not bear to court them, and he made no effort to do so. 

He, not seeing his two cronies anywhere, decided he would take a nap. The events of the past hour, he supposed, had deeply tired him in more ways than one. -- And unfortunately, not even the soap that he had so roughly rubbed on his skin to remove the mucky scent of lake water was enough to eliminate the very disconcerting thoughts he had regarding them.

He padded in his naked feet towards his four-poster. Feeling as if he could sleep for ten weeks in the weariness he now felt, he drew open the emerald drapes that concealed his one sanctuary in the whole castle. 

But, alas, not even this small amount of space could be called sanctuary anymore, thanks to one Pansy Parkinson. Draco groaned at the sight of her sitting there, looking at him with the pretence of grief in her eyes. 

What're you doing here?' said Draco in the calmest voice he could assume. He had not thought of her at all after she had left him and Hermione to themselves beside the lake, too engrossed in his contemplation of his own feelings. 

Pansy, now wearing green silk robes to match the curtains around his bed, slowly got up from her crouching position on his berth and stood so close to Draco that their bodies touched. She fluttered her eyelids and pouted her lips in what she perhaps thought a seductive gesture. Draco fought the inane urge to puke. 

Draco,' she murmured, lazily lifting a hand to trace his chest with her finger, I've been thinking I know it was really stupid of me to push that Mudblood' (here Draco's eyes flashed) into the lake' Her hands snaking around his waist, she lifted her head and began to spread small butterfly-kisses from his neck to his chin, and finally, to his lips. Draco, who didn't at all feel even remotely attracted to Miss Parkinson but was desperate to erase from his mind all images of kissing Hermione Granger, did not resist nor accept this entreaty, thinking he would only allow himself to render the latter if she apologised for being so senseless. 

Apparently she had no plan of doing so. But you _must _admit,' said she, with an arch smile, it was rather unnatural of you to do what you did.' 

That spoke more than anything Draco had yet heard. Revolted at this sudden change, and getting the idea that Pansy thought _him_ the one at fault here, Draco put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away roughly. Surprised, Pansy landed on the bed. 

Misinterpreting his actions, she smiled sensuously, flipped her shiny black hair over her shoulder, and came forward again to kiss Draco on the lips. Mortified and disgusted that Pansy would think him so, so _Slytherin_ to do such a thing, Draco took her by the arms and let himself shout at her, all pretence of calm gone. 

Listen here, Pansy,' he spoke scathingly, I don't know if you're just insensitive or really, really stupid. Don't you yet realise what you almost did? Don't you _know_ Dumbledore knows?' He yelled, mindless of how his grammar became erratic when he was angry. Pansy looked determined not to cower under his wrath like she had before, but fear was so clearly expressed in her eyes, as well as a growing hint of suspicion. 

What's the matter, Draco?' she asked in a soft, coy tone, as if she had not at all heard what Draco had been so loudly stating. Don't you love me anymore?' 

If it were not for the irritation he felt and the want to get into bed and just sleep, Draco would have laughed himself silly at such an absurd idea. Have I _ever _loved you?' Draco hissed at her, in ire borne of agitation to have her out of his sight.

Pansy's eyes widened in unspeakable astonishment. The expression on her countenance quickly changed to one of anger. 

You – you bastard!' she screamed. 

Draco wondered vaguely if Pansy even _knew _what a bastard is. He certainly wasn't one, and would have told her so, if she hadn't started in on a new aspect of the conversation: 

You – You're in _love _with that – that _Mudblood filth –_' Pansy shouted, eyes watery and shocked at this new realisation. 

What did you say?' Draco yelled at her, disgusted both at Pansy for being so impertinent to assume that just because he didn't love _her _it meant he did Miss Granger, and himself for retorting just a little bit more defensively than he would have had this assumption been made yesterday. Or even just an hour ago, actually. 

Don't deny it, Draco!' Pansy screamed, standing on tiptoe to blare into his face. It's so – so _obvious_!' 

Was it? Had he been so careless as to let Pansy, who his parents knew very well and favoured, believe that he was attached to that Mudblood? And it's not true, of course not! Draco frenetically searched his head for something he could say or do to convince her otherwise, and then he did something that was immensely uncommon for Draco Malfoy. 

He took Pansy in his arms and kissed her urgently, trying to ignore the sensation of repulsion that had shot through him when his lips met hers. 

Fortunately for him, Miss Pansy Parkinson was not hard to convince. Once she had got over her astonishment, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him back passionately, with gusto. 

Just as the revulsion in Draco was beginning to fade from the kiss (Pansy had had lots of practice, and therefore was not a bad kisser), the door was flung open by a most unexpected person. 

Miss Parkinson!' said the shocked voice of Madame Pomfrey. 

Draco was rather irritated at having so many people intrude on the solitude of the boys' bedroom – first a girl who assumed herself his girlfriend, next the school nurse. What next, Headmaster Dumbledore?

He and Pansy sprung apart as Madame Pomfrey treaded through the pile of junk food wrappers (left there by Crabbe and Goyle) and came towards them, eyes wide in astonishment and nostrils flared at the cheek of the students. 

Do you not know that the boys' dormitories are off-limits to young ladies?' said Madame Pomfrey upon reaching them. She sounded rather reluctant to discover that Miss Parkinson was a lady. 

Pansy, visibly upset at the interruption of this most happy moment, put her hands on her hips and said, in her usual Slytherin-esque impertinence, Don't _you_, Madame Pomfrey?' 

Draco, despite the intensity of the moment, could not help but want to laugh at the two of them. Pansy had made a point, actually, and Mr Malfoy was rather amused to see that she had some wit in her. 

Madame Pomfrey seemed to sense the irony of this situation, and glared scathingly at Miss Parkinson, in the same way that Draco had glared at the young Slytherin earlier. 

Unlike yourself, Miss Parkinson,' said she, cheeks turning red with anger, I am here for a more important reason than to exchange saliva.' Here she shot Draco a sharp glance, to which Draco replied with the What'd I do?' look. I suggest,' the nurse said, still glaring at Miss Parkinson, that you take your leave.' 

Draco once more had to stifle his laughter at the irony – the nurse had asked Pansy to leave the same way Draco had earlier, ad litteram. But she was not to know that. 

Pansy, who seemed to realise the same thing Draco did, heaved a sigh of derision, lifted her nose into the air in a way reminiscent of Hermione Granger's bossiness, and left the room in a swirl of silk. 

All feelings of amusement dissipated once Madame Pomfrey directed her gaze to him, and for the first time Draco wondered why she was here. Then realisation dawned on him – of course! Potter and Weasley had brought Hermione to the Hospital Wing, and – they must have blamed him for Hermione's predicament! That was just so like them. Stupid, gloating Gryffindors

Mister Malfoy,' Madame Pomfrey began angrily. Yet it was differently angry, not the one an elder would use upon finding two teenagers snogging. Draco hadn't the time to wonder at it, for Madame Pomfrey took his arm and quickly led him outside the dormitory, as if eager to escape for fear that someone would enter and accuse her of engaging in the activities she had found the two Slytherins engrossed in. 

She stopped dragging him only when they had reached the entrance to the common room. 

Draco took his arms from her and rubbed it where her nails (kept cut short for sanitary purposes) had dug into his skin. 

Madame Pomfrey!' he said, upset. He was still very tired, and somehow he felt Madame Pomfrey would not have him resting in bed so very soon. Where are we going?' 

The nurse scowled at him. To the Hospital Wing, of course!' she exclaimed as if this had been insanely obvious all the time. 

But _why_?' asked Draco incredulously. He was not up to any screaming matches right now. 

I will explain on the way,' said Madame Pomfrey, looking like she was very eager to escape from the walls of the Slytherin dungeons. Draco followed her, albeit reluctantly, out of the common room, where a only a few first to third years were situated, what with its being a Hogsmeade weekend. 

As soon as they were above ground Madame Pomfrey started to speak. Miss Granger was brought into the Hospital Wing just some time ago, Mister Malfoy,' said she. Draco wondered how she could have the breath to speak so sharply and yet walk so fast, and he tried to keep up with her quick pace. 

So? What do I have to do with it?' said Draco in a rather insolent voice, as if daring the nurse to come within half a sentence of blaming him.

Madame Pomfrey looked at him over her shoulder and raised her eyebrows. What do you mean what do you have to do with it? You saved her, didn't you?' 

Draco, who had been ready to deny any blame that could befall him, was unsure how to react. Well, yeah, but –'

Be quiet, Mister Malfoy – do not waste any breath.' 

Draco shut up. 

***

At long last the two reached the hospital wing, one extremely weary and the other very worried. Poppy Pomfrey had only walked so fast because she did not want to pain the student who had so unhesitatingly saved Hermione Granger's life by letting him faint in tiredness and let others see him carried up to the hospital wing by a stretcher. She opened the door and ushered him in. 

Pick a bed, Mister Malfoy,' said Madame Pomfrey, walking in after him. 

Draco's eyes widened at the brown hair that peeked out of the covers on most adjacent bed. Recognising the russet locks to be Hermione Granger's, he scowled and picked the bed farthest from hers, to prove to Madame Pomfrey (who seemed to doubt the animosity between the two in the light of recent events) and to himself that any supposed attachment involving Miss Granger and Mr Malfoy was in reality impossible. 

Draco sat down on the edge of the bed and awaited Madame Pomfrey's explanation for having him here. It certainly wasn't to verify Hermione's tale, as she had already done that. And certainly he wasn't going to give him a talk about misbehaviour such as this from a Malfoy (yes, to them it is classified misbehaviour), as that was his father's job. So what was the nurse going to do? 

Madame Pomfrey tossed him some infirmary pyjamas, telling him to change into them. Draco took one look at the white cotton and shook his head. 

Nope, sorry, Madame Pomfrey, I can't wear this,' said Draco with a small smirk. 

The nurse chose to ignore the boy's cheek and asked him why, though rather apprehensively, not wanting to hear a remark like I'm allergic to cheap fabrics'. 

Because I just changed into these,' said Draco, gesturing to the rich material of his robes. 

Madame Pomfrey thought it pointless to argue, and thought that it really was all right – at least he had already changed out of the clothes that were soaked with water from the tarn. So instead of scolding him she instructed the Slytherin to lie down on the bed he had chosen. 

Draco wrinkled his nose and proclaimed, I won't do that until you tell me what I'm doing here.' 

_At least he's got a bright future as a businessman, _thought Poppy with a sigh, observing the boy's persistence. She sat on the chair beside his bed. 

I hate having to explain this two times a day' she muttered under her breath. 

Draco Malfoy raised an eyebrow. Huh?' 

Nothing, Mr Malfoy. Now listen. The giant squid is sick, and you and Miss Granger, who have been drenched with the tainted lake water, are sick, and I need you to stay here obviously so I can cure you.' She was too weary to elaborate on the squid's illness. 

Draco looked surprised. But I'm not ill!' cried he. He pointed a finger in the direction of Miss Granger. She obviously is, she can't walk, but I can!' 

Poppy wondered why he seemed to hate the idea of being unwell so, when three years ago he had been here for days, faking pains of the wound a provoked hippogriff had bestowed upon him. 

Which makes it possible that you are more ill than she is,' she said, the soothing manner in which the words came from her mouth useless as it contradicted the troubling statement. 

Not another word came from Draco who, defeated, took off his shoes and started to make himself comfortable on the bed. 

Madame Pomfrey did not tuck him in like she did the other patients, lest she make him feel uncomfortably like a child. She knew Malfoys hated to be treated so, from personal experience 

_~ But Miss Hawkins!' said the lad, struggling to get away from the nurse's grip. _

_Poppy watched from her corner in the hospital wing, intrigued at the scene this handsome boy, whom she knew was five years younger than her, was causing. Aware that he would not like her watching, Poppy pretended to be asleep, eyes only half-closed. _

_Mister Malfoy!' said Miss Hawkins, visibly upset. The nurse took a deep breath and tried to smile gently. Come now,' she said, attempting to take the youth's arm and lead him to a bed. You're sick, and we don't want that, now do we?' _

_Shut up!' the boy screamed. Poppy, mortified, watched as he whipped the wand out of his robes and directed it at the nurse. _

__Stupefy_!' His yell resounded in the infirmary in an echo. _

_Miss Hawkins fell to the floor with a dull thump'. _

_Malfoy rushed to her side, and Poppy, thinking he was about to _Ennervate'_ her, was gratified. But satisfaction turned to dismay as the boy muttered _Obliviate_' under his breath and left the hospital wing without a second glance. ~_

Madame Pomfrey? Madame Pomfrey!' The voice of that very boy's offspring broke her from her reverie.

Sorry, what were you saying?' said the nurse, feeling rather ill herself. 

Draco Malfoy shifted uncomfortably. Can you close the curtains, please?' said he. 

Poppy, trying to ignore the voice in her head that repeatedly yelled _Stupefy!_' in her head, nodded and drew the drapes closed. As she walked back to her office for a very brief nap, a hand to her head, she could not help but worry for _her _safety.

Draco, not pleased to be in this place, but still gratified that he could at least _sleep_, buried his head in his covers, accepting sleep with open arms. 

***

_Hmm. Where was he? _

_Draco looked around him and took in surroundings. Grass in dire need of a mowing covered the ground, and white clouds that concealed the sun dotted a lovely blue sky._

_The sound of footsteps could be heard, and a figure came up behind him. Draco barely had any time to react when a pair of small hands covered his eyes and an ill-stifled giggle came from whoever owned them._

_'_

_Draco smiled at the sound of the name and the voice that had pronounced it. It was said so gently, so lovingly, so unlike when he was called Malfoy'. But who had said it? _

_A green blindfold replaced the hands in front of his eyes. Another giggle. Draco was practically bursting with curiosity, and was about to tell whoever it was to take the cloth off, when his words were abruptly smothered by a pair of soft lips on his._

_Shocked, Draco raised his hands and removed the blindfold from his eyes himself. He blinked to help focus, then saw that a girl – undoubtedly the one that had kissed him – was running away from him, still making soft giggling sounds. _

_Draco, a genuine smile forming at last on his countenance, threw the green blindfold on the ground and started to chase after the girl. She was a blur of yellow and brown, butter-coloured dress whipping in the wind, chestnut hair flying behind her. Now who did he know with hair like that...? _

_At last he was right behind her. Draco reached out a hand to touch her, and turn her around by the shoulders, curiosity overpowering him. _

_A gasp escaped his throat as he realised who it was. _

_Granger...?' _

***

Draco sat up in bed, the neck and back of his black robes damp with sweat. It took a moment to remember where he was, for he gasped at the sight of unfamiliar curtains and the roughness of the strange bed. 

Moonlight streamed in through the long above his and all the other patients' beds, telling him that he had been there for already most of the afternoon and night and illuminating barely anything. A hand to his suddenly aching head, Draco tried to cling to the last of the dream. What was it? There was this girl, and a blindfold, and a kiss Who had kissed him? 

The pain in his forehead seemed to increase upon remembering who the girl had been. Draco scolded himself for forgetting to tell Madame Pomfrey that his Dreamless Sleep Potion was in his dormitory. Dreams were a most unavoidable thing, of course, and as he had read somewhere, dreaming was nearly as crucial as breathing; but he felt that _his _dreams were killing him rather than keeping him alive. Lucius was aware of this, of course – and that _he _was the cause of such horrid dreams in the first place – so he had given his son a concoction that would let him have dreams, but make him forget them instantly upon waking. It was the same as the brew that Harry Potter had drunk years ago, in this very room, but he was not to know that, not being present at the time. 

Feeling like he was suffocating behind these curtains, Draco drew them open and took a deep breath. He frowned at the smell – it smelled just a little bit like the Potions dungeon, most likely because of the rows of medicine stacked up in the shelves that stood against the walls. 

He winced – he when he'd sat up abruptly upon waking up he had cracked several vertebrae. Face twisted in pain of both his head and his neck, he rubbed at the latter with his hand. 

He wanted to ask Madame Pomfrey for some medicine, and stood up. It came to him that he didn't really know where Madame Pomfrey slept, and, hoping maybe she was in her office, padded towards its door in bare feet, passing Hermione's bed in the process. 

Draco knocked, careful not to be too loud as to wake up the others students in the infirmary. After no reply, Draco knocked en core. Nothing. 

Impatient, Draco tapped his knuckle smartly against the wood, loudly. 

Instead of waking Madame Pomfrey, however, Draco only heard someone stir behind him. Recognising the voice, he turned around agitatedly, not wanting Granger to see him. 

Hermione was tossing and turning in bed, frowning as if she were having a mildly disturbing dream. Draco's eyebrow furrowed, and of some reason he tiptoed quickly to Hermione's bed to comfort her. 

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he squinted at her face for lack of light. She was still uneasy, and her eyelashes quivered as they rested on her pink skin. 

Draco, disregarding the voice in his head that objected fervently to what he was doing, he lifted his hand and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. He stroked her cheek in an attempt to abate her discomfort. 

It seemed to be working, as when he had touched Hermione's cheek the trembling of her lips and eyes diminished, and her face gained that peaceful quality sleep always brought forth. As if the dream she had been having improved drastically, a hint of a smile even flitted across Hermione's face, making him think that _Hopefully you're seeing something different to what I dreamed of_. Quietly he watched as her breast rose and fell while she breathed.His gaze fell on her lips, and he remembered how, in his dream, the girl -- Hermione -- had said his name. Once again he found himself wishing the dream were real, but then he shook his head. How extremely different her reaction would be to his if she ever had a dream similar to his most recent... 

A/N: ::sigh:: Don't worry, you don't have to flame me, I already know it's bad I need a knew beta! OK, then, call for beta-readers! Contact me at [][1]serle_blue@yahoo.co.uk. I don't know if that link is working – if it's dead do tell me

   [1]: mailto:serle_blue@yahoo.co.uk



	4. Slipping

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter Summary:** A short post-hospital wing interlude. 

**Author's Note:** I am back, after about two years' hiatus. I wrote chapters four to about nine a year ago, immediately after posting chapter three, but my laptop crashed (as it has about three times since then) and all of my work went down the proverbial drain. My style, obviously, may have changed since then; indeed, I'm planning on editing previous chapters to my taste. Influences as to the changes come from reading Dorothy L. Sayers' Peter Wimsey mystery novels, Laurie R. King's Sherlock Holmes and Mary Russell novels, and some of the fandom's best Snape/Hermione and Draco/Hermione fics.

In this chapter, I'm just testing the waters for a bit, see if I can still write, so it's quite short. I hope you enjoy it—and I would love feedback. 

_Dedicated to my beloved Apocalypse. I apologise for not reviewing. _

* * *

**A Way With Words**

Chapter 4: Slipping

_Diary, _

_Why is it that when I plan to keep a diary and have to write down something important, I feel too horrible to write about it? Why do I even keep a diary? It seems that I can't ever write about the important things. She__ keeps a journal, and Lavender's even seen it, but she says it's all about books and schoolwork. What does that say about Her? Is She different from me because She can write about the things that matter, or is She exactly the same as me, and… and does the fact that nothing I do features in the entries Lavender saw, mean that I am__ important? To her? Or is it in fact the exact opposite? Gods. If Ron ever saw this diary…_

_…_

_I… Merlin. It can't be true. Please, please, don't let this be true. I'm not__ Ron, and I'm not about to start being intimidating and overprotective and unreasonable and jealous. What am I going to do when she starts dating? Grill each and every one of her dates as if… as if I had any right to do so? Blimey. I wish… but the holidays will come soon, and before that, a Quidditch Match. I don't have to see her very much at all, assuming she sticks to her plan of going home for Christmas. Perhaps this will fade in her absence._

_I wish it didn't matter quite so much that I'd miss her. _

_I wish Draco Malfoy would drown in the lake, and take his stupid hair down with him._

_H. P.  _

***

She could get used to this. Waking up daily in the warm, scarlet brocade of the Gryffindor dormitories, she found it refreshing to open her eyes to a room with white curtains and free sunlight. She wondered how it was that she could still hear the birds singing their morning hymns, while the Hospital Wing was very high up and the birds and trees were very far down, and far away. 

She took a silent assessment of the situation. She was Hermione Granger. She was in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts, and feeling relatively weak, but with no bruises or noted broken bones. She sighed in momentarily relief, and continued her assessment. It was Sunday. She glanced at the watch that lay on her wrist, and tried to resist a smile when she remembered that it was a present from Harry. It was still quite early; only six thirty. If she stood up now, she would be able to make the morning service at a certain chapel some distance outside of Hogsmeade. 

When she'd started Hogwarts, and when her parents had asked Albus Dumbledore whether there would be any services at school on Sundays, they had been disappointed to know that no, Mr and Mrs Granger, there would not; but they had been pacified when Dumbledore gave Hermione permission to saunter out the door, early on every Sunday morning, for church. 

She wasn't especially religious, and this made her wince inwardly every time she remembered it. She did retain this belief in a certain higher power from her childhood, and pray to it before examinations and such, and she did believe in His existence, and in Heaven and Hell, but that was it. No Bible passages that she memorised, no singing secret Hebrew hymns (although she suspected doing so would be more Jewish than Christian). Sometimes she felt bad that she only went to church to… get away from it all. To preserve some tie with the Muggle World (because most of the churchgoers she saw were Muggle, and were unaware of the school's existence). To keep herself sane, perhaps, with that yearly ritual of 'Peace be with You' and 'And also with you', in the midst of everything, everything that was dark and painful in the magical everything. 

Hermione gingerly sat up straight and tried to stand up. She was relieved that she could; apparently, aside from a certain point of pain every time she set her foot down, she still had the strength to walk. Sitting down for a bit to spare herself while she opened the bed curtains, she was reminded of _The Little Mermaid, which had been one of her favourite fairy tales when she was little, simply because the original version ended up so sad and deep and empty. Hermione found herself smiling wistfully. Now there was a comparison she could do without. She certainly didn't _look_ like a siren, and although she could sing, she knew it was not as well. And her voice wasn't something which was delightful to the ear, and which was something anyone would miss. She was well aware that everyone got tired of her constantly rattling tongue. Even Harry. Especially Harry. _

Oh, well. 

The curtains parted with a whisper, and vaguely she wondered who had closed them at all; when she'd dozed off yesterday she certainly hadn't, and Madame Pomfrey had finished lecturing her and treating her before she'd gone away to the Nurse office, so Hermione doubted it had been the Nurse. 

She looked up and wished she hadn't; Draco Malfoy was crouching on the floor a few feet away on her right, looking at something down on the flagstones. For some reason her cheeks tingled, and her stupid heart turned over, and she suddenly wished that she didn't have morning breath, or look too dreadful. She wondered absently where her white hair ribbon from yesterday was, knowing that her hair must be an unruly tangle. If she cleared her throat with a heightened awareness of the way the fabric of his dark pants stretched over his legs, or the way his hair fell fetchingly down to his eyes, well, what was it to anyone?

Malfoy looked up at the sound of it, and, to her surprise, did not bother to straighten up immediately, as she would have done. Different strokes, and all that. She did note, however, the hand that Malfoy quickly took to his robe pocket, as if he were pocketing whatever it was that he had been looking at on the floor. 

'Malfoy,' she said. 

'Granger,' he murmured. 

'Why are you here?' she said, keeping either resentment or familiarity out of her voice. She was so unsure as to _where _she stood with anyone, especially with people like him… Oh, no, there was no one like him. 

'Same reason as you, I suspect.'

'Lake?'

'Unfortunately. Since last ni—yesterday afternoon.'

'Pansy must be devastated.' 

He looked up sharply. 'If you're about to make some comment about no one warming her bed while I'm away…'

Draco watched thoughtfully as her eyes widened, and he wondered what it was like, not really meaning anything mean that you unwittingly said. 'Of course not,' she retorted. 'I was just—it was just conversation.' 

He shifted his stance, and for the first time looked uncertain. 'Are you—are you all right?' 

'Fine,' she said automatically, startled. 'What's it to you?' 

'Pansy didn't mean—' he began, as though he were trying to apologise; but he stopped, and it looked to Hermione that he changed what he had been about to say. 'Because if you're not, then it would mean I won't be, too,' he said, reminding her that they had both been in the lake and would, theoretically speaking, suffer quite the same effects. 'Where are you going?' he added abruptly as she stood up, wincing almost imperceptibly. 

'Church,' she said, trying to keep the little pain out of her expression as she slid her feet into the slippers that came with the hospital gown. Then she realised what she had said, and wondered if that had been a wrong move in the façade game that people were always playing. Were you supposed to say that to a Malfoy, instead of 'Mind your own business'?

His face changed. 'You're in pain,' he said softly. 

'Just a bit, Malfoy, and—and why am I telling you this? Go away. You're obviously going out yourself,' she added, glancing at his ready apparel. 

'I am,' he said. 'Madame Pomfrey came and told me I could.' 

As if on cue, the nurse herself opened the door to the room and walked in. 'Oh, good, you're awake, Miss Granger. I'm just going to give you something, and I'm going to take a spot of blood from you, and you can go on and have your breakfast.' 

Both women paused briefly to look as Draco Malfoy strode out of the room without excusing himself, although he did not bang the Wing door.

The blood was given and the potion taken, although Hermione couldn't help but wonder what potion it was, and took note of the ingredients she could smell: Tansy Extract. Monkshood, combined with Opaleye blood to cancel the poisonous effects and intensify others… 

***

She had got downstairs to the dormitory without anything untoward happening, and entered the Common Room to realise with a small smile at that no one appeared to be awake. The Gryffindors tended to sleep in during Saturday nights and make the best of their last free night until the academic week. 

Her foolish, foolish heart seemed to move for the second time that morning when she saw Harry sprawled on one of the couches, sound asleep. Had he been waiting for her? She looked away and tried not to feel so hopeful. 

***

_Journal, _

_If Only she were stupid, or exceptionally ugly, or unkind. It would all be so much easier._

_D. M. _

***__

Filch usually monitored the Sunday gate, and that morning she was surprised to see Hagrid standing by the hidden door, which sort of reminded her of something out of _The Secret Garden, with the green vines coiled over it like snakes… friendly snakes, that didn't look quite so poisonous, and lent a certain beauty to the scene. She smiled._

'Good morning, Hagrid,' she said as she came up, braids bouncing. 'Where's Mr Filch?' 

Hagrid smiled a smile that did not quite reach his eyes, and she felt a bit troubled. Not on Sunday, she groaned inwardly… 

He saw the look on her face and tried to make her relax. 'Not ter worry, Hermione, it's not anythin' ter worry abou'. Filch just got called 'way.' 

'I—please tell me if something bad happens,' she said, wishing the moment the words came out that she hadn't said anything. 'Or something good, actually. I'm so tired of waiting for news, for him to pounce…'  

Before Hagrid could say anything, she straightened and felt the corners of her lips lift again in a not quite genuine grin again. 

'I'll see you later,' she said, and walked out of the gateway that Hagrid held open. 

And snorted. 

'Here we go,' Hermione muttered when Draco Malfoy looked up. 

For the first time, he smiled at her, although this smile wasn't particularly friendly. It was more sarcastic than anything else. 'So glad to see me, Granger.' 

'What are you doing here?' 

An elegant shrug. 'Going on my way to service. You?' 

When she didn't say anything, he hinted, 'My mother is Catholic, Granger.' Still nothing, but those big, curious, incredulous eyes. 'I didn't say we were _saints,' he said, irritated, and this seemed to wake her up. _

'Run along, then,' she said. His sinister smile had set the mood. No more casual conversation, eh? She thought, fingering the wand inside her coat pocket. Hermione just remembered that he could be dangerous. Was dangerous. Yesterday wasn't anything to base _anything on. _

'I'm coming with you,' he said, and lifted himself up off the tree on which he had been leaning, to face the path leading to the slightly secluded chapel. 

Without any choice, Hermione held the wand tighter in her hand and walked on. 

As they continued, and as Hermione gradually forgot the pain that came with every footstep, the tension seemed to fade, and she was ready to say again, when the chapel was finally in view; 'I can't believe you're Catholic, Malfoy.' 

She was privately pleased to see that the defences hadn't gone up yet. 'I can't, either,' he said, with a smirk that she could get used to and which she almost never saw on Harry anymore. It hurt to realise that she missed it. 'My mother usually meets me here on Sundays. She's been ill lately. I don't think she'll be able to come,' he murmured, and Hermione wished so hard that she hadn't seen that little flash of sadness in his eyes, heard that little bell of gloom in his voice. 

'I hope she will,' she said, and astonished herself. 

He hadn't time to say anything more, because they had to step inside and give way to the church music that flowed softly about them. 

***

If Only, indeed. He tried not to notice her hair that looked, must feel, so like the ones that clung to the white hair ribbon that he held and fingered in his pocket. He tried not to see her neck, and the little row of freckles across her nose that he found, to his amazement, terribly cute. He tried not to think about why he was walking to church with Hermione Granger, and sitting down with her, and listening to her sing. 

The only person he'd ever heard sing like that was The Mater. 

The light filtered in through the stained glass windows of the church, bathing the priest in light yellow and blue and red and green and purple as he stood in the pulpit. He opened his mouth, and Draco knew the man must be saying something, but all he could hear was birdsong, and light breath, and the swish of her dark blue skirt on the wood as she sat down. 

What _were you supposed to do when it came to the part to say 'Peace be with you'?—Kiss her on the cheek? Most people would. Would he have liked to? Hell, yeah. But all she did was look at him gravely, as if wanting him to promise that he'd keep the peace but holding little hope for it. He wanted to kiss her. _

The mass ended, and people went filing out. Draco wondered if all of them except him felt light or hope after services. He wasn't particularly religious, himself, and much of the reason he went to service at all was the fact that his mother would meet him there. (Why hadn't they ever seen Hermione there before?) 

He hadn't been about to  go today, because Narcissa Malfoy _had_ been ill lately and it wasn't likely she would be allowed to go out, and to so far. But then Hermione had said she was going, and suddenly that gave him a reason to dress up properly and walk all the way down to the Gate. Even if Narcissa wasn't there. 

'She wasn't there,' Hermione said once they stepped out of the chapel. 

'I noticed,' he said flatly, knowing that she was referring to his mother, and that she felt sorry. 

'I'm sorry,' she said predictably. 'I should have liked to meet her.' At his sharp look, she hastened to add, 'I mean, see her outside, of… when your father isn't around. Is she… is she afraid of him?' 

They both kept on walking, but Draco could barely restrain from taking her by the shoulders and shaking her. 'What made you ask?' 

'I didn't mean that in the way it sounded,' she said, half almost-angry, half apologetic. 'I only meant to ask… just forget it.' 

He didn't say anything, only kept walking. Until the soft sound of her footsteps on the dried leaves stopped, and he had to stop and turn to her in question. 

'Hm?' 

'Why are you doing this, Draco Malfoy?' she blurted out. 

Draco was genuinely puzzled. 'What?'  

'Don't play dumb,' she said. 'You can't keep at it for very long.' 

He tried not to look so pleased with himself, and failed. 'Why, was that a veiled little compliment, Granger?' 

She flushed an angry red. 'Don't twist my words. I'm not letting you change the subject, either,' Hermione added, and he didn't know whether to smirk or to scowl. He still wanted to kiss her, though.

This didn't change when she put one hand on her hip and stood with her weight to one side. _Vixen_, he thought, and wondered absently if she could possibly know how appealing that was, before he convinced himself that no, _Malfoy_, it was not at all appealing. 

'I can't figure it out,' she was saying, and he paid attention. 'It would be nice to think that you're suddenly reformed, or with newly discovered morality, but considering the past few years I can't help but think there's a really, really good reason that you haven't killed me yet.' Her tone was flippant, but she truly hoped he wasn't going to do anything. Pleasegodno. Her careful eyes watched his hands, and tried to look at his eyes at the same time. 

His careful gaze encompassed all of her little actions, and he raised an eyebrow. 'Don't be so nervous, Granger. It grates.' 

'I can't trust you,' she blurted out. 

'I've behaved myself perfectly well since yesterday, Ms Granger,' he said with the tone of the mildly affronted. 

'I wouldn't put anything past you,' she said. '_Know thine enemy_ is not something I've taken the time to do yet.' 

Draco Malfoy _knew_ his face didn't change. Years of practice made him sure of that. You could stick a knife in his back and he wouldn't flinch, if not flinching were necessary. It was just that, when she said _enemy_, he felt that some momentary pain—momentary, but no less deep—would spill out of his eyes and betray the biggest secret he'd ever kept from the world—and from himself. 

It couldn't do to back up just yet, he thought, his mind struggling to get back on the fencing game of words. Too obvious. _Right. Strategy: feign that you're feigning offense_. 'I _am hurt, Granger,' he said, an effective, theatrical hand flying to his chest. _

She didn't laugh or get angry. Instead she looked shocked, and Draco couldn't figure out why, until Hermione said, her eyes veiled a bit in sadness, 'Too long, Malfoy.' 

'What?' 

'You paused. Just one second too long.' 

Silence lay before them, embedded heavily in the air. He looked at her, and the detached part of him wondered just who she had practiced verbal chess with. He said as much, in an absent, distracted tone.

'… I mean, Potter and Weasley would lose a battle of wits with a rubber duck.'  

A tiny quirk of a smile. 'Professor Snape is quite willing to teach me how to spar verbally,' she said. 'Helping him on the Wolfsbane is not exactly my idea of fun, but one does learn things.' 

'Lupin?' 

'Mm-hmm.' 

He took a second too long to speak again, and the smart remark he would have made wouldn't have fitted in smoothly. He felt like a tennis player who failed to toss the ball back; he watched his repartee sitting on the ground, sullenly, just like a fallen ball. 

'I'm slipping,' he said with a sigh. 

'I know' was all she said for a while. Moments later, they turned and walked back home, one feeling as though the world had turned upside down, and the other feeling rather ashamed and embarrassed, and strangely naked in spite of his designer clothing.

***

PS: I would like to offer an apology for my characterisation of Pansy Parkinson in the last chapters. I have actually grown to write her; _Save Yourself_ and another author's _Pressed Flowers_ made certain of it. 


	5. Testing

Author's note: 

I want to apologise for the false update. I uploaded the wrong chapter. 

Meriadoc 


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